Games Traitors Play

41

‘Betrayal requires a great leap of faith,’ Fielding said, looking out of the window of his office. Marchant was standing beside him, watching the Tate-to-Tate ferry head down the river, trying to understand what Fielding had just told him.

‘You’re sure it’s Primakov who wants to see me?’ he asked.

‘Who else would it be? A good friend of your father suddenly turns up in London after years out in the cold. It’s hard to imagine that they’d want you to meet anyone else.’

Marchant didn’t reply. Before the approach in Sardinia, he had forgotten all about Primakov, but the mention of his name began to sharpen blurred memories. The Russian had been a regular visitor to their house in India, a short man always arriving laden down with gifts for the children, peering over the top of them. It was so long ago. There had been an Indian toy, a mechanical wind-up train that went round a tiny metal track. His mother had taken it away because of its jagged edges.

‘There’s something I need to show you,’ Fielding continued. ‘A document that you would never normally see, not unless you become Chief — an appointment that would first require North America to sink beneath the sea.’

The CIA hadn’t stopped his father becoming Chief, Marchant thought, ignoring Fielding’s attempt at humour. Instead, they had waited until he was in office before humiliating him. Fielding stepped out of the room and told Ann Norman and his private secretary that he didn’t want to be disturbed, then closed the door and went over to his desk. But he didn’t sit down. Instead, he turned to the big safe in the corner behind him.

‘Give me a moment,’ he said, and bent down in front of the combination lock. Marchant instinctively looked away, out of apparent politeness, then watched in the window reflection as Fielding punched in some numbers — 4-9-3-7 — into a digital display and turned a large, well-oiled dial beneath it. His brain processed the movements in reverse: one and a half turns clockwise, two complete opposite turns, a final quarter-turn clockwise. Everyone who had ever been in the Chief’s office had wondered what secrets the safe held, which British Prime Ministers had been working for Moscow, which trade union leaders had been Russian plants.

‘Let’s sit over there,’ Fielding said a moment later, like a don about to discuss a dissertation. In his hand he held a brown Whitehall A4 envelope. He gestured towards two sofas and a glass table at the far end of his office, below the grandfather clock that Marchant had yet to hear ticking. Before he sat down, he placed the envelope on the table and put both hands on the small of his back. ‘The combination changes twice a day, by the way,’ he said, stretching, ‘should you ever think of opening it.’

‘I’d expect nothing less,’ Marchant said, trying to hide his embarrassment. He sat down on the edge of the sofa, watching Fielding unpick the quaint brown string that kept the envelope closed at one end. In addition to the normal security stamps on the front, Marchant saw another one, in faded green, that read ‘For C’s eyes only.’

‘I don’t need to stress the classified nature of what I am about to show you,’ Fielding said.

‘God’s access?’ Marchant asked. Fielding nodded. Product didn’t come more secret.

‘Your father was one of the most gifted officers of his or any other generation. We both know that. He recruited more valuable assets behind the Iron Curtain than anyone else. But the most prized of them all was Nikolai Primakov.’

‘I remember him from Delhi. At least, I remember he used to bring us presents.’ Marchant could also recall big smiles and warm laughter, but he couldn’t trust his memory. Why hadn’t there been the normal household caveats about Primakov, given that he was from a hostile country? After the family had left India for the final time, he had never seen the Russian again, although his father talked of him often.

‘The two of them were well known on the South Asia circuit, celebrated sparring partners who were also close friends.’

‘How did that work?’

‘Such overt friendships were more common in the Cold War. Vasilenko and Jack Platt in Washington, Smith and Krasilnokov in Beirut.’ Fielding paused. ‘Only a handful of people know that Primakov eventually succumbed to your father’s overtures and became one of ours. This is a brief summary of the case.’

He handed Marchant an A4 document that had been typed rather than printed out from a computer, an indication that it was an only copy. Marchant tried to hold it between his hands, but realised they were shaking, so he put the sheet of paper onto the glass table and read. It was a series of bullet points, explaining how his father had recruited Primakov in Delhi and how the Russian had returned to Moscow and eventually risen to become head of K Branch (counter-intelligence) in the KGB’s First Chief Directorate. It made impressive reading, but something didn’t stack up. Officers other than Chiefs would have been involved in the running of Primakov, heads of stations, Controllerates back in London.

‘The version in front of you is for general reading,’ Fielding said. ‘It’s the copy new Prime Ministers see when they come to office. This one is a bit more confidential. South of the river only.’

He slid another sheet of paper across the glass table. Marchant recognised his father’s handwriting at once, the green ink faded but legible. He read fast, taking in as much as he could, trying to ignore his hands, which were still trembling. It soon became clear why no one other than fellow Chiefs had read the document. In it was an admission by his father that made Marchant swallow hard.

In order to keep the information flowing from Primakov, Stephen Marchant had let himself be recruited by the Russian. It was the highest stake an agent could play for. Marchant read on, and realised that his father had crossed the sacred line. To keep his enemy handlers happy, he had passed over classified Western documents to Moscow. As far as Marchant could tell, the CX seemed to have been about America, mainly Cuba. He could see nothing that might have directly damaged Britain. He hoped to God he was right.

‘Is this why the CIA went after him?’ he asked.

‘Not unless I’m working for Langley.’ Fielding smiled. ‘No, the Americans never knew. No one knows. But it is why the Russians are going after the son. They’ve seen a pattern, a family gene. Some call it “the treachery inheritance”. In their eyes, your father betrayed America. As for you, they look at the last year and conclude that the CIA is probably not your favourite intelligence agency either.’

Marchant felt a range of emotions, but in amongst them the thought of his father handing over US intel was strangely reassuring. It made his own visceral distrust of the CIA seem more understandable.

‘Cordingley? Has he seen it?’ He was the only previous Chief who was still alive.

‘Yes, but his issues were never with America.’

‘Someone in Moscow might have told the Americans that an MI6 agent was betraying them.’

‘There’s always that chance. But not in this case. Moscow thought they had the crown jewels, and the operation would have been known only to a very few people. Your father went on to be Chief, after all.’

‘But Primakov was working for us.’

‘And we hope he will again.’ Fielding paused. ‘No one in Moscow Centre knows that he was once loyal to London. He’s approaching you as a seasoned Russian intelligence officer with instructions to recruit an unhappy British agent with family form. And you must close your eyes and jump, let yourself be recruited by him.’

‘Just like that?’ Marchant liked to think of himself offering some resistance.

‘See how he plays it. One or two senior people in the SVR still have reservations about Primakov’s past, his relationship with your father. He knows that. They suspected your father might have been a worthless podstava, and will be quick to dismiss you as a dangle, too. Fight the rod a bit. As I said, betrayal requires faith. Don’t expect the smallest sign that Primakov is one of ours. He’ll give you nothing. When you meet him at the gallery in Cork Street, he’ll be wired. Moscow Centre will be listening. And all you can do, deep down, beneath the cover, is hold on to what you believe to be true: that Nikolai Ivanovich Primakov once worked for your father, and is now hoping to work for you.’

‘And what do we hand Moscow in return?’

Fielding paused. ‘We give them Daniel Marchant, of course.’

Marchant looked at him and then turned away to the window, pressing his nails deep into his palms.

‘No one other than me knows that we’re encouraging Primakov to recruit you. As far as everyone else is concerned, you’re trying to recruit him. It’s important you understand that. Prentice, Armstrong, even Denton — they’ll all think you’re hoping to turn Primakov. No one must suspect the reverse is true.’

‘And the Russians?’ Not for the first time, Marchant was struck by the loneliness of being Chief, the solitude of the spymaster’s lot, unable to trust anyone, even his own deputy.

‘Moscow Centre must believe that you’ve been landed, not presented to them on a plate.’

Marchant nodded. It was unsettling to think that the Russians had believed for so long that his father was theirs.

‘I’m sorry, you were right about the Russian-speaking Berbers,’ Fielding continued. ‘We’re now certain that the SVR is protecting Dhar.’

Marchant had never doubted who had taken Salim Dhar from the High Atlas, but it was still reassuring to hear someone else spell it out.

‘The approach in Sardinia confirmed it,’ Fielding added. ‘We know the SVR are not averse to using Islamic militants when it suits them. Roubles and rifles continue to flow freely into Iran and Syria. Moscow controls mosques in Russia that preach jihad against America.’

‘And do the Russians know we’re related?’

‘It would seem so. We’re back to the treachery inheritance again: the anti-American family gene. If you had to identify the one single thing that defines Dhar, it would be his hatred of the US. Moscow Centre is demonstrating an ambition we haven’t seen from them for a very long time. If they’re successful, they’ll have two brothers on their payroll. One, the world’s most wanted terrorist; the other, the Western intelligence officer charged with finding him. And they share a father who once worked for Moscow, too. A lethal combination, wouldn’t you say? The house of Marchant could do a lot of damage.’

‘Which is why they’ve recalled Primakov.’

‘He’s the only person in the world who could recruit both of you. He knew your father. Moscow Centre is still wary of Primakov, but they had no choice but to trust him, bring him back in from the cold.’

‘And what do you expect Primakov to give us?’

‘Advance warning, I hope, of whatever act of proxy terrorism the Russians and Dhar are planning. And given they’re counting on your help, we must assume that this time Dhar’s target will be mainland Britain.’